


The Pulsing Heart

by thefairfleming



Series: City of Illusions [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Cunnilingus, F/M, Gladiator AU, Knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:11:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Show me how to kill a man,” she breathes when they part, and the words are so at odds with the warm pleasure in her voice that Jon is momentarily taken aback.</p>
<p>“Why do you wish to learn how to do that?” he asks, and her gaze, when it meets his is steady.</p>
<p>“You’ve been around Joffrey,” she replies. “Do you honestly need to ask?”</p>
<p>Only moments before his heart had hammered from the taste of her mouth. Now, it hammers with fear, and his blood seems to run cold. She is so strong, perhaps the strongest woman he’s ever met, steel and silk wrapped together, but there is only so much even a woman like Sansa can do against a monster like Joffrey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pulsing Heart

“Show me.”

Jon is used to these words from Sansa. She has a curious spirit, his lady, and since she first took him to her bed, a fair amount of that curiosity has been turned on him.

“Show me,” she’d demanded one day when he’d told her of an incident that had happened in the training yard, and so he’d found himself standing on the sand at dusk, Sansa by his side, her palla covering her bright hair, as he’d pointed out the spot where Pyp had nearly taken the ear off a new fighter that afternoon.

“Show me,” she’d clucked one evening when he’d winced in her embrace, his ribs still bruised from a fight earlier in the week. And when he had only shaken his head, she’d frowned and pushed his tunic up with gentle hands, soothing the mottled skin she’d found with soft kisses and sweet words until he’d sworn the pain lessened.

“Show me,” she’d whispered, kneeling amongst Jon’s sheets, his cock in her hand, her lips hovering just over him. He’d used his mouth on her a dozen times by then, but she had never repaid him in kind. It had never occurred to him to even ask, and Jon had nearly told her to stop. But then her tongue had darted out and touched a spot that had made his eyes cross, and it turned out there was nothing he had to show her. That, she figured out all on her own.

So no, it’s not the words themselves that surprise Jon. It’s the fact that she says them standing naked at the foot of his bed, holding a dagger in her hand.

Her skin still gleams with sweat in the candlelight-he’d loved her hard tonight, not that she’d seemed to mind-but he swears her eyes shine brighter. She twists the blade, watching the play of light on metal, and with her tangled auburn hair hanging to her waist, she could be a goddess of war come to life.

“How did you get that in here?” he asks, sitting up and leaning against the wall behind the bed. Jon is not allowed weapons inside the barracks. None of the gladiators are, and usually guests, even highborn ladies, are searched lest they arm their lovers.

But Sansa only shrugs, the movement somehow elegant. “Your lanista is terrified of me, so his searches are never very thorough. I think he’s afraid if he touches me just a little too long, I’ll go running to Joffrey.”

It’s hard for Jon to imagine Mormont being terrified of anyone, but then he thinks of how cold Sansa can be when it suits her, how imperious. Few people know that the veiled lady who visits Jon in his quarters is the Emperor’s betrothed, but Mormont is very aware of her identity, and yes. Yes, if Sansa wanted to, she could cow even the seemingly impervious lanista.

She almost cows Jon himself when he gestures at him again with the dagger and repeats, “Show me.”

“Show you what exactly?”

She rolls her eyes then and sits at the edge of the bed. Jon cannot help but reach out to run the back of his hand along the curve of her breast, and she makes a pleased sound, leaning over to kiss him in a slow, lazy press of lips.

“Show me how to kill a man,” she breathes when they part, and the words are so at odds with the warm pleasure in her voice that Jon is momentarily taken aback.

“Why do you wish to learn how to do that?” he asks, and her gaze, when it meets his is steady.

“You’ve been around Joffrey,” she replies. “Do you honestly need to ask?”

Only moments before his heart had hammered from the taste of her mouth. Now, it hammers with fear, and his blood seems to run cold. She is so strong, perhaps the strongest woman he’s ever met, steel and silk wrapped together, but there is only so much even a woman like Sansa can do against a monster like Joffrey.

Then she smiles again, her lips curving up in a teasing grin. “I know you’re quite handy with a dagger. Surely, you can show me all manner of tricks, and-,”

Her words dissolve in a gasp when Jon clutches her wrist and yanks her hand high, high enough so the blade rests at his throat. She means to turn this into a game, but Jon finds that when they are talking of her safety, her life, there is no room in his heart for jests.

“Here,” he says fiercely, his eyes locked on hers. Jon knows his grip on her is too tight, can feel the delicate bones underneath his fingers, but he can’t seem to make himself hold her any more gently. “You cut his throat.”

Her breath is coming faster now. When Jon pulled her, he inadvertently tugged her to her knees, and she kneels almost over him now so that he must look up to face her. “Jon,” she murmurs, but he only tightens his grip, pulling her- and the dagger- even closer.

Sansa’s eyes go wide then, and she says his name again, this time with more urgency. It isn’t until Jon feels something warm on his neck that he realizes he’s cut himself.

He doesn’t care.

“No tricks, no games. If he hurts you…Sansa, if he lays a bloody finger on you, you cut his throat and you run, do you hear me?”

She is struggling slightly in his grasp now, trying to pull the knife away from him, but Jon, who usually tries to be as gentle as he can with her, only holds her fast. “Kill him and run. Promise me. Promise me, Sansa.”

“I promise,” she says on something near a sob and finally, finally, Jon loosens his hold.

The moment he does, she wrenches the knife back, throwing it from the bed. Jon hears it clatter to the floor, and then her hand is on the back of his head, pulling his face to hers.

Their lips meet in something near a frenzy, and while Jon hisses when her fingers move down his neck, brushing against the small wound he’s made there, the pain does nothing to quell his desire for her. If anything, it only seems to make him burn hotter, want more, and when his teeth catch her lower lip, she makes a sound near a growl and holds him tighter.

Sansa’s hands tear at the sheet still covering his lap, but Jon will not have her like that, not yet. Instead, he grips the back of her thighs, pulling her even as he pushes her backward with his body, until her back is flat on the bed, her legs draped over his shoulders, and when his mouth finds where she’s wet and hot for him, Sansa’s heel connects almost painfully with his lower back.

It’s good though, the weight of her foot moving along his spine, the desperate pull of her fingers in his hair, the cries she doesn’t even try to muffle.

Jon pushes her to one crisis, then another, as though pleasure could be a substitute for safety, as though he could imprint her with his touch and be with her always.

He would make her come a third time, a fourth, but Sansa shoves him away with feet and hands before pushing him to his back to straddle his hips. When she sinks down on him, her face red, her eyes wild, he thinks again that she must be some sort of goddess, a beautiful creature who has chosen him for reasons he cannot begin to understand.

Surely nothing could hurt a woman like that.

Jon tries to tell himself that over and over again as he thrusts up into her, as his hands clutch her hips.

Later, after he’s shuddered and spent inside her, they lay back in the sheets, blood still tacky on Jon’s throat. Sansa barely brushes her fingers over the cut, her expression unreadable.

“I’ve never cut a man before,” she finally says, almost wonderingly.

Then her eyes narrow, and there is the girl he knows best. “Another first you can claim from me,” she teases, and this time, Jon smiles, plucking her hand from his chest and kissing her fingertips.

For a long moment, they only look at one another. It’s late, and Jon knows she must leave soon, but for now, he holds her and watches her and tries to find words to say to her.

At last, he settles on, “I wish I were there. When you’re with him, when he…when he frightens you.”

Sansa takes that in, her finger tracing absent patterns on his skin. “You love me, don’t you?” she finally asks, and Jon closes his eyes.

“Yes,” he answers on a huff of breath. Other men have probably been much more flowery and poetic in their declarations of love, but Sansa seems pleased enough as she sighs and drapes an arm across his chest, pillowing her head on his shoulder.

“Then that’s enough,” she tells him, and Jon can only hold her tighter and pray she’s right.


End file.
